We were walking along a road
near Ypres, heading for a little restaurant which Ailsa knew of when David
dropped his bombshell.

“Your Dad was here, you know”

(This is it getting up close
and personal, folks!)

My father and mother separated
when I was about four years old and my father died soon afterwards.

Mother, having decided that she
and I would do better on our own , took me to her sister and brother-in -law in
Ayrshire and I was brought up among aunts, uncles, grown-up cousins and their
children who were about my own age.

No mention was ever made of my
absent father and my enquiries elicited a series of entertaining responses such
as

“Be quiet”

“For goodness’
sake be quiet”

Don’t annoy your
mother”
“Away outside and play and SHUT THE DOOR!!!!” –
this last was usually from my Uncle Jimmy Kirkwood who may have been a Lovat
Scout sharpshooter (he kept a carbine on top of the wardrobe) and who certainly
served in Gallipoli with the Royal Veterinary Corps but who had a pathological
fear of draughts and a profound irritation with small girls who caused them !

I soon learned that enquiries
about my father were politically incorrect so I didn’t make them.

Really, I can’t say that I was
in any way psychologically scarred by not having a father – I was far too busy
just getting on with life – (and very interesting it was, too !!) - but I did
puzzle over him from time to time and if an odd piece of relevant information
was let slip , I remembered it.

So, when David and Ailsa (being
obsessive about WW1) asked about father’s war service, I was able to say that I
thought he’d been in something called “The Dandy Ninth” and that there was some
connection with India.

As it turned out, they found
that he wasn’t in the 9th Royal Scots (although his brother was!) but, indeed,
he had served in the Indian Army.

Now, here on a road near Ypres,
David was confusing me.

“I thought he was in India,” I
said.

“Yes, love, he was commissioned
in 1919 but he was here up to 1918”

“What was he doing?” I asked.

“He was R.G.A. Oh yes, he did
his bit for four years. He was on the big guns supporting the 51st
Highland Division.”

By now we’d reached the little
café and were tucking into toasted sandwiches…..but all I could think of was my
father and his war and that he had survived.

I’d been so interested in D.J’s
heroic relations that I’d quite forgotten about my lot!!!

As we were leaving, David said
excitedly, “Come and see this!”

The café had a little shelf
under glass with odds and ends of WW1 memorabilia for sale.

He was pointing to a small
brass shoulder-badge with “RGA” on it.

“That’s just like the ones your
Dad would have worn. That’s an early example – between 1915 and 1917”

D.J. bought it for me and when
we got home, Peter Baker crafted it beautifully into a very wearable brooch.